


Cold

by UnderscoreMax



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Gen, Not A Fix-It, Oops, POV, im sorry, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:06:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24762049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderscoreMax/pseuds/UnderscoreMax
Summary: Your Will Is Not Your Ownor, i didnt think that the death knights had enough suffering after the battle of lights hope chapel. heres what i think wouldve happened if they acted like actual people
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> blizzard: death knights dont feel! they didnt get that upset because they Dont Have Feelings because theyre dead  
> me: cool sentiment, but, i think they should have a solid mental breakdown and crisis because of what happened

_the light was warm, like a calming blanket. warm. secure. soft. comforting. it was the last thing you remembered. a warm light enveloping your soul, melodic chiming ringing through your ears. peace._

its cold. its so unbearably cold. frost seeping into your bones, chilling your veins, it _hurts_. the cold spreads through you, pain numbing your mind, and a deep, resonating voice is just barely audible over the white noise of pain.

"Arise"

and you have no choice, no will of your own. your freezing bones struggle to obey. the white noise never relents, never allowing you a moment to think. you stand somehow both wobbly and solid, as if your body isnt listening to you. 

the voice returns, even colder than everything else.

"Come."

and once again, your body moves before you can process what that word meant. before you stands the imposing figure of the lich king. his lich fire eyes seem to burn into you, and all you can think is that he is the end all, be all, and you are inclined to serve. your pain, the frigid cold, it all fades, leaving you with the sole desire to do his bidding.

"Your Will Is Not Your Own"

you cant tell if he said it out loud or not. it radiates to your core, shoving any amount of hope or peace out of you. before you realize it, the cold returns and you are instructed to talk to instructor razuvious. 

you wreak havoc upon the citizens and peasants below acherus. relishing in their cries, their pleas. your hollow, mocking laughter fills the tavern's basement, where you know the few remaining citizens hide. in a moment everyone is dead, save for the child cowering in the corner. she looks at you as bravely as she can while surrounded by her dead family. for a moment, one dreadful moment you remember. peace. the light. the fear of the scourge. lordaeron. your family. fear. death.

your hands loosen, swords within going slack. your back curls in, and you almost let her go, until his voice returns.

"Leave No Survivors"

the cold returns, and for a fleeting second you see her become more afraid, before you forget everything but how to kill. the pain blinds you. her childish innocence is replaced with a frail and weak body. so incredibly easy to part beneath your blades.

time passes, and you dont know how long its been, only that havenshire is in flames, and you were the hand that did it. a slight swell of pride comes at knowing you served your king well. his voice invades you once more, telling his armies to cross through the tunnel. you never pause, as unstoppable as death itself, and you face the armies of the light. somewhere you feel a pull, to bring you back to the light, but that is stopped before it can really begin. arthas has no need for the light. the light is your enemy. you do not need that weakness. it will not serve you as well as the frost and dark magic does. weakness will be purged from these lands.

while you fight the paladins you feel an awful splitting within you, like you are instead fighting yourself. you push it away, like the pain of everything else. this is not the time, light's hope chapel _must_ fall, your king commands it.

he arrives, shining, bright, too bright and too hot and it hurts just as much as the cold. tirion. it stirs something, and that too is pushed down but not by you. 

the highlord is kneeling, as too is thassarian and koltira. your knees hit the ground, and you arent sure what is happening but it all hurts. your brain cant focus on anything other than the pain, and your king wont help you. why wont he stop it. he always stops it. where are his next orders? 

you feel him before you can hear him. he speaks, although distantly it seems, he sent you here to die. he wanted tirion. you almost feel betrayed, but you understand. killing the highlord tirion fordring would be a massive blow to these paladins, and raising him would be even better. the shining bastard in question steps closer and your brain is filled with white noise.

soon darion is charging at the lich king, and giving his sword away to the paladin. and your brain empties. the lich king is gone. the pain, the cold, its gone too. before you can relish in being free of the pain, a horrible amalgamation of what youve done washes over you. a father begging you to spare him and his children. a mother clinging to her dead child, fear in her eyes as she watches your sword come down. the child in the basement, begging you to leave her alone. sounds of crying and screaming and begging and pleasepleaseplease.

you topple forward, sick warmth coming up. you empty your stomach of anything that mightve been there. its soley acid and potions. around you the sounds of your fellow death knights comes to you. thassarian seems to be in hysterics, and koltira is staring blankly at the rotting grass. darion is almost as bad as thassarian, but hes talking to tirion in stage whispers, with tears still streaking down his face.

almost every paladin took a collective step back when everyone fell. clutching your head you look around and realize that every death knight left is in a similar state, all are crouched on the ground. 

your head is the clearest its been since your revival and you cant stop thinking about every innocent person who died by your hand. the pride you felt just hours ago makes you feel sick enough that you almost retch again. a glance upwards shows that havenshire is still smoldering, smoke curling over the mountains. your eyes burn.

a few of the paladins venture forth cautiously. one tries to heal you with the light and it burns as much as it helps. you shiver, flinching away from his hand. you look more like a cornered animal than a fearsome knight raised from the grave. your lich fire pupils are blown wide, fearful of the holy man beside you, your body still crouched over, bent away from him.

you hear tirions voice, its too loud, but everything is. he tries to take a solid hold of the people in front of him, trying to calm both armies. the highlord talks to darion for a moment longer before going inside the chapel. that you tried to destroy. hes gone for a while, and you watch as the other death knights slowly calm down, if only slightly. thassarian is whispering to lord maxwell tyrosus, you can only catch small bits, but he seems to be discussing what happened while under arthas' control. a paladin had tried to talk to koltira, but the elf either didnt hear her or was ignoring her. his gauntlets are digging into the decaying earth below him as he continues to stare unblinkingly at the ground. orbaz is nowhere to be seen, which might be for the best. 

after a while longer tirion emerges with a short stack of envelopes, each sealed with a golden wax stamp and addressed to the faction leaders. he gives one to each of you, checking in on each knight. he tells you to take the letter to your leader, that they will listen to him, that you will be accepted there. its difficult to actually believe, but you nod anyway.


End file.
